


A Sun Rising

by pommedambre



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Overstimulation, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Romantic Fluff, Short One Shot, Simon Snow is too beautiful, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pommedambre/pseuds/pommedambre
Summary: Simon filled my dreams like some demigod descended from Olympus with golden skin and glowing eyes -- his arms deliciously warm and reaching for only me. And I would claim him while his face is upturned and mouth slack in ecstasy. Sometimes, I dreamed I was mortal. Other times, I would be an avenging creature risen from the depths of Hades to spear the heart of Simon Snow with love’s poisoned arrow.And there’s always fire -- fire that consumed us both and fused our souls.~A two-part one shot in which Simon's magic rises again, and Baz goes a bit feral.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 137





	1. Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sexy little scene I've been thinking about since finishing "Wayward Son." Can't wait for the rest of the series!
> 
> I hope other fangirls enjoy! My apologies to Ms. Rowell.

His skin, which has grown dull since returning from America, begins to peel away — withered and dry — the fresh skin revealed beneath glows gold and I bring my hand up to shield my eyes. I catch the ghost of a scent — that rich, wild and sharp green that whets my appetite and hopes —

His wings shudder and hang from him like some great dead thing and I watch in fascination as he writhes about on the grass.

Simon exhales a breathy moan of relief as he’s freed from the weight of them at last and he collapses onto his stomach. He lays there with the magic wreathing off him like fire — golden, bright and hot. His clothes have been burned away, leaving him naked and glowing. Simon arches languidly under the cloud of shimmering miasma as his dead skin, wings and tail lay beside him, smelling sweet and brown and dead.

“Simon.”

“Ugh.”

The heat is unbearable for me, and I stagger backward, nearly tripping over a discarded wing.

“Simon!” I watch as he rolls onto his side and tries to push himself up. Crowley, he’s beautiful. 

“My magic, Baz — my —“

My heart is in my throat. His eyes are wide and shine with excitement. Simon’s skin is a marvel — tawny and flecked with moles and freckles — like a robin’s egg. His eyes are a deep, vibrant blue — like the sky over the desert at noon — even without the sun I feel them burn me.

I reach for him, and the arm of my jacket disintegrates. I don’t care. I have to — 

“Simon!” I push forward into the thick of it, and the air is sucked from my lungs.

His miasma is molten and thick as water, and I know I’ve already begun to burn. His hand grasps my wrist and I feel his fingers burning tracks across my skin.

I don’t care.

The last thing I see are his eyes — deep and blue and fucking triumphant, and I grin proudly.

He’s here, around me, and I’m burning. 

I can’t stand any more, and fall at his feet. I feel him around me, suffusing every pore, and he kisses me. I think I shall faint, for it sears me and my heart bursts into flame.

Simon. 

I love you.

 _Simon._

—

I thought once that just sharing a room with him would be enough. Just to be able to watch him sleep would have to be enough.

The scent of him made it hard to breathe, for it roused that dangerous, feral side that I hated to admit scares me even now. Once, in our sixth year, I stood over him as he slept and watched the thick vein in his neck pulse — even and steady — and for hours I wondered what he tasted like.

Maybe his blood would be thick and dark red, and stick to the back of my throat. Or, maybe it would be light, suffused with his wild magic, and refreshing.

More alarming still was the desire to mark him — to climb on top of him and bury my teeth in his neck and make him mine forever.

I wanted to drown in the fantasy of it. Still do.  
  
Snow would kill me if he knew.  
  
Now, we sleep in the same bed and he curls around me instead of himself, and I still can’t breathe. He smells so alive.  
  
Sometimes, he half-wakes and rolls over onto me with sleepy open-mouthed kisses. Maybe he thinks he’s dreaming — he says things I know he’d be embarrassed to be reminded of in the morning, but I love it.  
  
Our first time had started that way. We were trapped in the purgatory of second base for months — not for wanting more, but because for the first time Simon actually _thought_ about it.  
  
“I’ve...never ... well, you know ... done it before,” Snow had admitted to me, like a terrible secret, the words sticking together awkwardly as they tumbled out of him.   
  
“Neither have I.” But I wasn’t ignorant. Simon has a wonderful innocence about him. He’s shy about these things. It makes me love him all the more.  
  
Snow seemed surprised. “I don’t know what to do! You know I can’t dance!”  
  
“What the fuck does dancing have to do with this?” I wanted to laugh.   
  
“The steps ... the rules ... I ... it’s .... it could hurt ... I don’t ...”  
  
“Do you want to have sex with me?” I asked, maybe a bit too bluntly. His ears had gone a bit pink and his eyes brightened; I smiled.   
  
“Yeah, a lot.”  
  
“Then don’t think about it. Do it like you do everything else and you’ll be fine.”  
  
Simon’s face grew serious. “You’re not like everything else, Baz.”  
  
Oh. _Fuck._ My heart fluttered like a murder of crows taking flight.  
  
And then I remembered how dangerous this is for him — the risk he’s taking in loving something like me.   
  
—  
  
We never talked about roles or things like that. I thought it would happen naturally; that we’d slip into what felt most comfortable.  
  
I knew I wanted him under me, warm and writhing. But I wouldn't ever take the risk of it. The fear of sex triggering a violent feeding held me back. Perversely, I imagined him unraveling beneath me, gorgeous and glowing and golden, and I’d greedily gorge myself on the pleasure dancing on his blood. It was terrifying and terrifyingly arousing.  
  
No, I couldn’t ever risk losing control like that. And Simon, bless him, never asked. Below or above, I really didn’t care, as long as Simon Snow was in my arms.   
  
—  
  
I remember the first time I ever saw him — that fateful day at Watford. Beautiful, wild, knob-headed Simon — I had watched the heir of the mage chat amiably with his new friends over breakfast with his lips glazed with butter and flecked with the remnants of a sour cherry scone.  
  
His bright face turned as his eyes locked with mine for a moment — searing — and I saw the constellations of the night sky reflected in the hundreds of freckles sprinkled across his face and neck. He swallowed a mouthful of buttery scone.  
  
My fangs had dropped.   
  
—  
  
I’d wanted to hate him, and I tried to for years. I might have succeeded some days. Back then I didn’t know if I was still human, and lurked in the shadows of the living. Dead or alive or trapped somewhere in between, I felt my heart stir and beat with longing for him within my breast. It flooded me with a powerful feeling — a feeling that made me feel wild, and weak, and restless.  
  
I am haunted by that feeling still.  
  
During those years I dreamed of Simon often.  
  
He filled my dreams like some demigod descended from Olympus with golden skin and glowing eyes -- his arms deliciously warm and reaching for only me. And I would claim him while his face is upturned and mouth slack in ecstasy. Sometimes, I dreamed I was mortal. Other times, I would be an avenging creature risen from the depths of Hades to spear the heart of Simon Snow with love’s poisoned arrow.

And there’s always fire -- fire that consumed us both and fused our souls.  
  
—  
  
The heat is good. If I burn, so be it.  
  
—  
  
Now, something is pleasantly tight in my chest and pools like honey in my stomach.

I can taste Simon’s magic on the air again and it makes me giggle. It’s a pity about the tail, though ... I had quite liked that addition.  
  
Simon clings to me and roughly buries his face in the juncture of my neck and shoulder. His fingers dig mercilessly into my back as he moves against me, and I hear my own breathing grow ragged in desire.  
  
“Baz ....,” he gasps, and I feel his lips graze the side of my neck.  
  
—  
  
I sink slowly into Simon Snow at last, engulfed again by flesh that clenches and flutters as it accepts me. I’m suddenly aware how frayed my restraint and patience have grown.

My Simon — my beautiful Simon Snow —

We have been intimate before, but not like this. Before, he had been the one shyly stoking the embers dormant in me until I surrendered to his fire — but this — this is —   
  
“Simon,” I growl, though perhaps it is more of a sob. We move together, slow and deep and indulgent.  
  
—  
  
Simon is hot, and I’m struggling to think about anything beyond how good this is, and how I want more.  
  
Already I’m careening toward climax; the muscles of my abdomen are cramping as passion winds tighter than a clock’s inner spring, and my blood is singing.  
  
“Baz … please Baz .. promise me can we have this forever?”  
  
The plaintive question in Simon’s soft plea breaks through the feverish haze of lovemaking, and my eyes flutter open.  
  
—   
  
My breath comes hard, and I reach for Simon’s arms, drawing them up around my neck as I fall forward upon him seeking more of his sweet and shy kisses. My lips, open and wet, drag across Simon’s mouth, too overcome to kiss him properly, to form a word, or to whisper assurances as we dissolve into each other.

He’s so warm, and I feel his magic seep into me, staining me in his colors — his scent. 

_I love you, Simon Snow._

“Mine,” Simon purrs, pulling me close. My fangs drop, and my mouth goes dry in desirous thirst. Now, with his arms around me, and his swollen hole tight around the base of my cock, I hold Simon Snow close once again, nuzzling him weakly and whispering, “Forever, Simon.”  
  
Completion begins with a fierce, fiery bloom in the pit of my stomach and I fill him with thick ropes of milky seed. My mind is peacefully blank and fears are forgotten.

For the first time in my life, I don’t think and let it all go. My fangs slide into Simon’s skin as easy as a hot knife into butter.

  
—  
  
I’ve never fed on Simon. I’ve never tasted his blood. We’d never even talked about it. There was no reason to; I would never agree to it. _Ever_.   
  
I hadn't caught myself before it happened. I hiss an apology — or maybe it’s predatory appreciation — into Simon’s skin as we both go rigid for a moment.

There is no fear here. Only Simon, and me, and a trust borne of everything we’ve experienced together, and love.

Simon’s blood has pooled beneath my tongue and fills the back of my throat — thick, sweet, decadent and teeming with life and magic — 

There is no going back.

I swallow.  
  
—

I hear Simon make a sharp, strangled sound of surprise a moment before he shudders in pleasure, and his limbs unfurl against me like fresh, virgin petals in bloom.

Threads of Simon Snow’s violent orgasm fleck my chest and stomach. It had happened quickly — a sharp yelp, the flutter and intense constriction of hidden flesh and the hot spill of semen — all happen in the same moment I sink my teeth into him.  
  
—  
  
I’m too overcome to realize I've rediscovered the magic that dances within Simon’s blood, hidden all this time.   
  
—  
  
Thirst.  
  
Thirst as I have never felt eclipses my humanity and I feed like the monstrous creature I am. I am not sure how long it lasts before some sanity returns.  
  
Simon’s blood — I heave a great sob of joy and leave it trapped against Simon’s freckled skin —  
  
He had once poured out his magic into me. Now, he’s pouring out his soul.  
  
This is dangerous, I think hazily, to be fucking and feeding like this. I feel as if a circuit has been completed, and energy surges between our linked forms. Simon’s moans are so sweet he is nearly singing to me — his lips — vibrant and open and perfectly forming each cry that tears itself from his throat.  
  
I am sucking greedily upon his neck, and I am too drunk, too entranced to be ashamed by the sound of my thick, noisy gulps or the hot gusts of breath against Simon’s jaw.  
  
Later, I would tell him he was like discovering the taste of wine after only knowing water.  
  
But it’s not really. No, it’s so much more than that.   
  
—  
  
I feel Simon tremble and grow quiet as his arms weaken over my shoulders. His fingertips brush limp and cold across my shoulder blades.  
  
“Mm .... Baz….” I hear him murmur, sounding sleepy. “S-stop now .... o...okay?”  
  
—  
  
Simon’s blood carries in it the memories of magic itself — from ancient, empty skies filled with stars, to the first fires lit by the our ancestors in the cliff side caves, to desert temples of cool, alabaster stone filled with the smoke of incense and prayers, to the magic borne from the cultures of the Mediterranean that sparkled like jewels in the sun, to the early Anglo-Saxon mages to the Chosen One, Simon Snow himself —  
  
Tears of Simon’s blood leak from my eyes, turning my vision blurry and red —

It hurts.  
  
It’s too much for me to comprehend, to feel, to contain — I feel I’m being ripped apart — like being struck by lightening as oceans fight to force themselves inside an impossibly small cup, or the heart-stopping feeling of falling, or being trapped in an orgasm which only builds and builds until it is impossible to bear.  
  
Simon’s blood will kill me.  
  
This is how I die.   
  
—  
  
I convulse painfully, and claw into Simon with the same tenacity and desperation of a starving lion. A sob of despair catches in my throat; I cannot pull back. No. I cannot stop. I’m draining him. I’m so thirsty. I want it all, and I’ll take it all.  
  
_No._ I’ve never felt so warm, and Simon has never felt so cold. _Stop me._  
  
Then, all goes sudden and deathly still as I chase something deeper, and much darker. _Stop me, please_. A hymn of soft moans only Simon can hear tumble from me, a promise of my monstrous heart.  
  
_**“Simon says … STOP.”**_  
  
The circuit is suddenly broken with Simon’s spell, and the air is suffused with painful sparks and the airy, metallic scent of ozone.  
  
I’m falling backward — the world is still spinning, screaming — and I'm naked, my mouth full of teeth and belly full of blood.  
  
“Holy Christ,” I manage to gasp, and reach out for Simon Snow before I fall into darkness.


	2. Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Baz feeds on Simon a second time with much greater success.

I wake up tangled in Simon Snow’s arms. My face is buried in his hair to luxuriate in his comforting scent, as is my custom on most nights. 

“Hello,” he mumbles, and I shudder. I feel as if I’ve just managed to pull myself free from a pit of tar — everything feels heavy and I’m still exhausted, though I’m sure I’ve been sleeping for awhile.

“Where are we?” My voice is raw and raspy with sleep.

“The infirmary.”

That’s right. We’d been called to Watford at Miss Possibelf’s request after returning from America. The series of events that followed which led to Simon’s magic unexpectedly erupting didn’t seem too important right now. 

Because I had just remembered  _that_ , too.

I’d literally shagged my boyfriend in the middle of the football pitch in broad daylight.

And then I’d very nearly drained him dry.

I hope I’m dead and this is my punishment of an afterlife.

I sit up too quickly and lean over the edge bed as a wave of nausea makes my vision swim. My back protests with a twinging spasm.“Simon —“ I choke out. “I’m so —"

He gives me a playful little shove, and rolls off the bed. He’s wearing a dark gray infirmary gown and a pair of argyle socks. He stretches his arms over his head with a groan of enjoyment, and I catch a glimpse of a freckled asscheek through the loosely tied closure down his back. 

I look down and notice I’m wearing the same gown. 

“You missed me having a hard time trying to explain to Penny why she’d found us naked, unconscious and covered in blood in the middle of the scorched out football pitch.” 

I feel the blood drain from my face — Simon’s blood — 

I lay back down on my back to draw the thin sheet up over my head. Poor Bunce. I owe her an apology. A big one.

“Come on, Baz, don’t be like that.”

“I  _fed_ on you,” I confess softly. My voice is muffled by my hands and the hospital linen. I feel him climb back up on the bed. The bastard straddles my waist and starts pulling the sheet away.

I let him. His face hovers over me, and I almost can’t bear to look at him. The moonlight streaming through the paned windows at the opposite end of the room illuminate the frizzed ends of his curly hair — like little threads of white fire. He runs a fingertip along the marks I’d left on his neck. 

“Simon, I’m so sorry — I didn’t — “ The bite has already healed silvery and smooth in contrast to the liberal sprinkling of brown freckles. 

He kisses me — wild and passionate. I shouldn’t be apologizing. An apology is a promise not to commit the same offense again, but I do. Again and again and again. God help me. I just hope he keeps kissing me.

“You should see yourself, Baz. Miss Possibelf had to lock us away in one of the exam rooms because you’ve caused quite the ruckus among the students on campus. Everyone's been trying to sneak in here to catch a glimpse of you. It’s amazing what a good meal does for a vampire.”

Why does he look so fucking proud of himself?!

“Simon,” I moan. “I nearly … killed you.”

“No, you didn’t. Not even close, actually. You’re the one who almost died, Baz. You pretty much overdosed on me.”

“You don’t have to look so fucking gleeful about it.”

“But, now I know you can do  _that_ , so I have expectations now.”

His body is humming with excitement, and it’s contagious. I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who’s causing the commotion on campus. I can taste Simon’s magic on the air, thick and intoxicating as wine. I want to bask in it, but I force myself to sit up again. Simon is still straddling in my lap.

“That’s never happening again, Simon.”

Simon tilts his chin forward and pouts. Now, I _really_ can’t look at him or I’ll lose my resolve.

“I could feel it, Baz, when you were feeding. I could feel how hungry you’d been. How much you enjoyed it.” He brushes hair away from my face. “You’d been starving.”

He’s right. 

“It’s hard to know you’re starving when you’ve never really eaten,” I confess. “But, now, I know what it is to feel …. full. And even worse, I’ve developed a taste for you.”

“You developed a taste for me a long time ago.”

“That’s not what I mean, Simon! I … I’ve never /craved/ you like that, and now … now I will, and it’s going to drive me mad.” My eyes dart to the Victorian armchair in the corner. “A chair leg will do nicely as a stake, Simon, so just do it quickly—“

“Baz.”

Simon cups my face but my eyes are fixated with deadly intent on the chair.

“Baz, look at me.” 

“Crowley, Simon, you need to get off me right now or I might just —“

Simon’s eyes gleam. “I don’t want you feeding on anyone but me, Baz.”

NO. WHAT.

“I’ll feed you, Baz,” Simon promises, and presses his hand to the center of my chest. “I’ll feed you any time you need it.”

I deflate in his arms — how can I feel so relieved and so dismayed at the same time? “I’m not a fucking pet,” I mumble weakly. And then I start to cry. Simon holds me, and strokes my hair, comforting me.

“You are really scared, aren’t you?”

I hold him against me, and bury my face in his shoulder. “Yes.”

He’s kissing my temple with his fingers knotted in the roots of my hair, and I slowly concede. 

“You’ll need to learn some restraint, though, Baz. If you drink too much too fast you pass out. But, I guess you’re not used to this yet.”

“How are you okay with this?”

“I love you, Baz Pitch. And I like the idea of having you literally addicted to me. I like it a lot.”

_You’re going to be the fucking death of me, Simon Snow._

“Also, your eyes, Baz … do you know what they look like when you’re feeding?”

“I wouldn’t, would I?”

“Black and shiny like obsidian,” Simon whispers, and seems to shudder in delight at the memory. I remember back to when he’d first seen my fangs, that Christmas he stayed at my family’s manor house. His expression is the same now.  


—  


With a small glance out the window, I look out at the moon hung low in the sky.

—

"It’s a bit after midnight now,” Simon observes. “I’ll let you rest until you can’t resist any longer." 

His eyes spark with an unspoken challenge to me. Simon spreads his knees on the bed and straddles me still. He’s always loved looming over me, the git. He shrugs off his gown and tosses it aside. He’s naked, save for those ridiculous socks. The lamp light weaves shadows of gold over his skin, and catch on the glistening sheen hidden in the hollow of his throat. 

He whispers a spell into the palm of his hand.

My lips part softly as I watch Simon bring himself over me — I can see everything — his soft stomach, the full curve of his ass, the deliciously wet whisper of his slick fingers against the thick bronze curls of the base of his cock. 

Then, he looks at me for a moment from beneath a fringe of golden lashes before reaching behind himself a soft, quiet squelch. 

I grunt a curse of defeat before it’s even begun. “You’re a bastard, Simon Snow.” I feel a dangerously eager grin pull wolfishly at my lips and I reveal my teeth to him, white against the shadows.  


Now, I sit up straighter against Simon and reach for him. One arm snakes around his waist and I tip him backward slightly to bite down softly on his right nipple. Something dark and prideful rears its head -- possessive and hungry. 

“I want you again, Baz, like that.” His words are sharper and higher on the wrong syllables, and dissolve into sweet moans when my teeth close around his flesh. Simon is only one knuckle inside himself when his lips soften in surprise, trembling, as his finger is joined by two of my own sliding alongside.

“I will give you what you want, Simon. And I want you, warm and wet and tight on my cock ...” 

His eyes close and he lets his head fall back. His hips jolt upward with a shy eagerness against me. My cock is hard and my hand splays across his back to steady him as I drag my canines down the center of his chest. 

Simon sighs, deep and shuddering, and his free hand finds my cock. His touch is featherlight along the pulsing vein that often rubs him just so when I take him from behind. 

My lips find Simon’s collarbone, and I bury my moans in sucking and kissing a perfect mark into his beautiful skin. I am enveloped in his scent — deep and smoky, and still a bit sweet like honey and cassis — beyond that, its complexities are indescribable.

The wait and the tension of who will cave first is maddening, and Simon moans impatiently. At last, his eyes lock with mine in defiant surrender. It hits me like a wave — a sudden crash of pheromones when Simon locks eyes with me in sultry defiance, and I’m lost. 

“Take it,” Simon breathes. “I’ll make you complete again.”

—

It happens in a heartbeat — I grab Simon bodily by the shoulders, push him back into the bed with all my weight and slam myself into him with a shuddering, feral groan of need gnarled by lust and hunger. 

I rut into him filthily and deep and drive the whole length of my cock into him. I am consumed with the desperate need to claim him again, and leave him sated and full of me. Simon’s eyes cloud over as my body crashes into him, and the only true response I get is a mixture of half-sobbed encouragements and my name. 

“B-Baz…!” he moans, and he attempts to grip at my forearms. The force of our mating paired with his slippery, spelled hands make for poor grip, and he scratches me instead. "So good--" he pants — a long, drawn out parody of a laugh, and then his breaths hiccup when my cock scrapes along his insides. "Yes--there--aaaaAHHH!"

“Simon,” I hear myself growl, and my jaw snaps with wolfish approval of his appetite for me. 

My hands rove possessively over his thighs, his stomach, his sides, and I reacquaint myself with his body. “My beautiful Simon. Mine, mine, all MINE. You can hang off my cock, Simon -- keep it nice and warm for me, and I'll fill every inch of you. Would you like that?”

What am I saying? I _have_ gone mad.

I pull out roughly without waiting for more of an answer. The sudden emptiness brings forth a desperate yelp from Simon, but I’ve already gripped his waist and flipped him over onto his stomach. I push myself back into him, stretching him, burying myself into him, claiming him again. 

The vein Simon had previously stroked slides deliciously along the rim of his swollen hole, and he curses into the pillows. 

“Fuck—! _Yes_ —!”

Our lovemaking is frantic and wild, and it is better than I could have dreamed. The pleasure of his slick sheath is so much sweeter when I'm full of his blood. The drag of his velvety walls over my throbbing cock drives me nearly mad, and I marvel at how I am holding him open and wide.

My arms close possessively around his waist from behind and my hand slides to wrap around his cock — neglected, hard and pink — and bobbing expectantly between his legs. I purr in obscene approval as I thrust into him. "So big--", Simon whimpers, and his hand wanders south to settle over mine. He sobs when my fingers stroke him just so. "Oh g--AAHH---" 

“Fuck, Simon…!” I hiss, and bury my face into the sweat-slicked valley between his tawny, freckled shoulder blades. Simon is quickly coming apart beneath me, and frantically shaking his head knowing what his body is about to unleash.

“Baz — I’m going t—“

Simon’s legs are quaking, and he seems to be struggling to stay on his knees, splayed as they are, and his hands are pulling at the sheets in all different directions in his desperation. Again, Simon shakes his head and presses his face to the bedding to muffle any more incriminating sounds. 

Under me, Simon’s back arches to slam his hips back against mine as he cums, and his body releases in a deep, beautiful quiver of pleasure. 

I fuck him ruthlessly through his orgasm, and leave him no time to recover. My need of him grows so intense I press my face deeper between his shoulder blades to muffle the sound of my moans and to run my tongue along the sweat-slicked skin that glistens there. I hiss in approval as Simon’s back arches beneath me and his hips push against me, taking me deeper, claiming me as his own. And I’m willing to be taken.   


“Ba..aaahhhzzzz—“ he whimpers. I slide in and out of him, and my cock rubs easily and painfully sweet against his sensitive spots. I feel a strange heat stir inside him, and Simon curls forward as he shakes his head again. Overstimulation is dragging him back to the edge faster than he can recover. "I--aahnn--I already---"

“So hot,” I gasp as my cock pushes into him again with a loud squelch. And when his body trembles in momentary apprehension, I stroke his belly to soothe him as we tumble towards consuming completion. His submission appeases something dark and predatory within me, and I am happy to reward him by lavishing him with my touch, my warmth, my seed…   


Though apprehensive, Simon’s body continues to move in the erratic, erotic dance against me. Simon drags his loose hole along my length each time he pulls back, and his movements are so obscene and delicious I am not sure if I should close my eyes and or carve the image of it onto my memory.

“Siiiimon,” I sob, and my head falls back with a slack jawed moan when Simon, blinded by his instincts and lust, rises like one enraptured from the bed to fully impale himself on me. 

We grab at each other as we fall into orgasm together — a frantic flurry of mouths and hands and the slick sliding of flesh. He guides my hand to his heaving breast — to his heart — and I feel his fingers rest between my knuckles as my blunt nails dig into his skin. I feel his heart pounding against my palm, and I cry out for him.

My cock hits him so deep Simon cums again with a primal scream, and the tremors that rattle through his flesh are more violent than the one before. Simon’s scream triggers my flood into him; instinctually, I pull him roughly against me as I bury my seed deep within him.  


“Simon,” I choke, breathless. My arms snake around his waist, and I gently pull him up against me as I ease back to rest upright. I hold him securely with his back pressed against my chest as remnants of my orgasm leak free and trickle down the back of his thighs. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, moaning, kissing, sucking, crying for him, curling around him.

"So good," he pants. Simon is so warm against me, and as he rolls his hips against me, lazy and sated, I moan his name. "You feel so good inside me--" Just as he says this, my cock slips from him with a lewd pop — bringing with it a thick rope of seed — which elicits a shuddering gasp from Simon.

“So good, so sweet, my ... Simon.”

My arms around his waist tighten, and I nuzzle my nose and mouth behind his ear.  


“I love you.”

Simon breathes something I do not hear and then guides my hand over his chest once more so I may feel the heart that still flutters within. He lifts his arm to hook around the back of my neck; his other hand keeps my hand over his heart with an encouraging squeeze.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Simon turns in my arms to face me, and he stares at me for many quiet moments. I bow my head to greet him. 

His blue eyes are almost docile as he exposes his throat. I lean forward to caress his skin with kisses and soft whispers not made of words, and which sound more like the subtle hiss of a blade being drawn from its sheath.

His hands slide up my back and sink into my hair, holding me as I drink. It is a lovely thing to be lost in him, and I am quickly drunk on Simon Snow. We remain like that for many warm and blissful minutes — with my palm pressing a promise over his heart, and my lips pulling poems from his blood.

“Baz,” he whispers with a sleepy smile as he seals me as his once again. **_“Simon says … mind your manners.”_**

Together, we write a new verse to the poems etched upon our souls, written in a language only we speak — a whisper of rosewood incense curling through feathered peony petals.

—

I wake up in the morning to find my boyfriend sitting on my feet at the foot of the bed like some overgrown house cat and munching contentedly on a sour cherry scone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted more. I wrote more. It's also explicit. Send help.


End file.
